Lord of Sherwood

by Laura Strickland

  Truthfully, Curlew said, “My feelings are so tangled right now I am not sure what I think. Change comes quickly.” And change, for him, always came hard.

  “Well, I do have an opinion,” Lark stated roundly. No surprise, there. She usually did. “Citing Marian—my grandmother or not—is no good recommendation. For there was no strength in Marian; she crumbled when Robin died, and abandoned their child. She failed in her role as guardian. The last thing we need is another such miss, and one who is likely to bring Montfort sniffing round is even less welcome.”

  With deceptive mildness Heron asked, “Would Marian’s circle not have failed, regardless, once Robin died?”

  “Aye, perhaps.” Blindly, Lark’s fingers reached for her husband’s and clasped them tight. “But what kind of woman is it who does not fight for her child, the child of the man she loves? I would battle to the death for the sake of any of my children.”

  No question of that.

  “She went mad with grief,” Falcon said gently. “I am not sure, love, I could go on without you, either.”

  For an instant pure, blazing adoration shone in Lark’s eyes. Wholly mollified, she murmured, “Aye, I know. Poor Marian—and poor Gareth! But that has naught to do with the forester’s lass.”

  Dryly, Heron said, “Should we not give her a chance before denouncing her, even as you have our beloved ancestress?”

  All three of them looked at Curlew. “You brought her here, lad,” Falcon said at last. “You had best speak to her.”

  ****

  A cold wind snaked through the village, promising rain and hinting of winter. Curlew found the forester’s lass outside Diera’s hut, sorting turnips. She glanced up when he approached and then leaped to her feet, light flaring in her eyes.

  And just like that Curlew felt the emotions leap up inside him—desire and something he understood far less well. Aye, and he had known this encounter would not prove easy. A more cowardly man might turn and run.

  She looked nothing like the well-tended young woman he had watched ride past him on the forest road. Her clothing mussed and tattered, with dirt on her slender hands, she might have been born in Oakham. Curlew tried to ignore his memories of those hands moving over his naked flesh and found he could not.

  She took a step toward him and her eyes reached for his. “Master Champion.”

  “Mistress Montfort.”

  A smile curled her lips. “Are we not unaccountably formal, considering—” She did not complete the thought, did not need to.

  Hastily he gestured to the vegetables tumbled at her feet. “What is all this?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I am trying to be useful. Diera bade me sort out those that might be stored for winter and those to be used at once, but I confess I cannot tell the difference.”

  “No doubt you are happier at needlework.”

  “By heaven, no! That is torture. I always long to plunge the needle into my eye.”

  “Then for what are you suited, Mistress Montfort?”

  Immediately he regretted asking, for the heat leaped into her eyes. He felt it all again—the way she had moved beneath him and fitted her body to his in glorious passion.

  He cleared his throat. “I hoped we might speak together.”

  “So did I.”

  “Come then. Walk with me.”

  He led her away down one of the paths that wound away into Sherwood. He felt always steadier in the forest. He would need all his wits about him now.

  “I hope you have been comfortable whilst I was away.”

  “Diera has been most kind, as has her grandmother. How is your mother, Master Curlew? Diera said you had gone to see her because she was sore ill.”

  “Aye, she lies very ill indeed, stricken. I do not know if she will recover.”

  “I am that sorry.” She reached for his hand. Curlew’s fingers moved of their own volition to accept hers; their fingers interlaced without intention. “I know what it is to lose a mother.”

  “Aye, so you said when—back in the forest. How long did you say she has been gone?”

  “Three years. It seemed no more than a winter fever. But it burned her up to nothing and stole her from us.”

  “I am sorry,” he told her in turn.

  “My father has not been the same since,” Anwyn admitted. “He is changed. I know I try him sorely, yet he has hardened himself somehow. He never would have forced me into an unwelcome marriage before we came here.”

  “Indeed, and I fear for my father also,” Curlew confessed. “’Tis difficult to imagine him going on without her.” Difficult to imagine Gareth so much as drawing breath without his Linnet—the memory of his devotion lit all the days of Curlew’s childhood.

  For a moment Anwyn was silent. Then she spoke with a quaver in her voice. “Is love not a perilous thing? So many go to their marriages without the benefit of it. I have always envied those who do manage to find it, like my parents—and yours, so it seems. Yet it comes at a steep price.”

  “Aye. Much is given; much is also taken.”

  She glanced at him in surprise. “Of what did you wish to speak, Master Champion? Surely, ’tis not the pain of love.”

  He stopped walking and turned to face her. Their hands, still linked, made a bridge between them, and above their heads the brown oak leaves clattered in the wind.

  “I wondered if you had changed your mind about going home.”

  She drew a quick breath. A new emotion flooded her eyes. “You do not want me here.”

  Curlew had spent the day convincing himself and everyone around him that was true. Now, facing her, he began to doubt. He wanted her near him; that much he could not deny. “I do not think it wise for you to remain here, despite the promise I made when we lay together.” He added very gently, “I did not know who you were, then.”

  “Does it matter so much that I am the daughter of Lord Simon’s head forester?”

  “Your presence is a danger. He will soon come searching for you.”

  “But he has no reason to seek me here, of all places.”

  “He will search everywhere, in due course, as any good father must. Mistress Montfort, you see how we are set.”

  “What said Heron’s parents? Did they insist you bid me go?”

  Not wishing to lie to her, Curlew said, “That remains in question.”

  “Did Master Heron speak for me?”

  “Aye.”

  Light kindled again in her eyes: gratitude. “I knew he would.”

  Corresponding jealousy leaped in Curlew’s heart. Had she feelings for Heron? Aye, and would that be so difficult to believe? He spoke quickly, before he could change his mind, “Go home, Mistress Montfort, and set your father’s heart to rest.”

  As soon as the words left him it began to rain, cold drops striking down like knives, slicing through the leaf canopy to beat upon the ground. Anwyn ignored them, her gaze fused with Curlew’s, and her fingers tightened on his painfully.

  “I pray, Curlew Champion, whatever else, do not ask that of me.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “What must I do to convince you I should stay?” Anwyn spoke before Curlew could voice the refusal she saw in his eyes. “I can prove useful to you and your folk—I know I can. Did I tell you I am well able to use a bow? My father taught me when I was still growing. I often shot in company with the young folk of our town, and you know how good Welsh bowmen are.”

  A smile curved those lips of his—warm, tantalizing lips that had explored every part of her in the dark. Desire slammed into the pit of Anwyn’s stomach. She did not understand the power of her longing, but oh, how she felt it!

  “It makes an intriguing picture, that—you with a bow.” The hand not fused to hers came up and touched her hair lightly, as if he could not help himself. “But one I think we must neglect.”

  Anwyn stepped closer. Now only the swiftly falling rain separated them. She knew men and how to manipulate them. Those games she had played at Shrewsbury and, aye
, in Nottingham also were all about manipulation. Men wanted but one thing, and a woman could get whatever she wanted if a man thought he might win it in return. Dangerous, aye, and she had nearly been caught once or twice. Yet she had already given this man that prize and, besides, he was like no one she had ever met. She was sure the great restlessness in her had sent her always, always searching for him.

  What a cruel irony that this one man appeared to be the only one ready to turn her away! She could not allow it, not on her life.

  “I can think of still another reason for you to let me stay,” she breathed.

  Desire ignited in the silver of his eyes. Even before she pressed her body against his she felt something in him leap to her, a reaching of pure spirit, and she yearned upward to find his mouth even as he sought hers.

  And oh, it was as she remembered from the darkness but better, ten thousand times better, for the answer it made to her fierce wanting. Her lips belonged on his, just as her fingers had been made to curl into his. Every separate part of her had been formed, before birth, to fit his flesh. And by heaven, his tongue belonged inside her mouth and the taste of him burning through her. Her spirit needed to be at home with his until she died, and after.

  She breathed his name into his open mouth. His hand released hers and she grieved, she grieved until his arms closed around her hard, lifted her from her toes, and gathered her against him.

  He knew who he kissed now, right enough. Let him make any excuses he would about what had happened in the dark. He knew who she was and she could feel him strain for her.

  She no longer cared who he had thought to meet in the night. She cared not for her sins of the past nor what had brought her to this place. For in this moment she offered him her heart—silently, helplessly—and everything she was, besides.

  Love me, she bade him in her mind.

  Of course he could not hear, yet his hands moved, slid down her back and cupped her buttocks, coaxing her still closer. The rain fell faster, and Anwyn wiggled her hands inside his tunic, her lips never leaving his. Her fingers encountered smooth skin marked by a tempting trail of hair that led downward, and beneath it supple muscle. Beautiful man, everything she wanted in the world—hers, hers, hers.

  She trailed her hands still lower and felt his arousal spike. Aye, and try as he might to send her away, he could not deny the attraction, nor the need.

  “Soldiers! Soldiers!”

  The cry came from the direction of the village, not so very far away. Anwyn distinctly heard the sudden clamor and the disturbance, even through the clatter of the swift-falling rain.

  Curlew went rigid in her arms and then drew away, leaving her bereft. He turned back to Oakham, and dread swamped her. She dug her fingers into his arm.

  “Nay!”

  “I must go see—”

  In the village a dog barked, a child began to wail. Anwyn heard a series of sharp demands. She still clutched Curlew’s arm tightly, and he pulled her with him back through the trees until they could see what transpired in the village. Between the rain and the intervening huts, Anwyn’s view might have been better, yet she could not miss the large troop of Sheriff’s men, all on horseback, with swords and shields.

  The dread in her heart intensified.

  Near the oak tree that stood at the hub of the village the troop paused and their leader called, “Where is your headman?”

  Falcon Scarlet moved forward, his wife predictably at his side.

  Curlew murmured, “That is Rassent, captain of the Sheriff’s guard. Why has he been sent?”

  Anwyn blinked desperately against the rain. Falcon must have said something she could not hear, for the captain on his tall roan horse waved a hand. His reply to Falcon came through the rain in pieces.

  “… de Asselacton … good friend … forester … daughter has gone missing. Abducted … thinks.”

  Anwyn gasped and stiffened. She saw Falcon Scarlet shake his head. Would he and Lark lie for her sake? Would Heron? And why should they, if it looked to cost them? She meant nothing to any of these people; she could not even be sure what she meant to the man at her side. What she had learned since coming here, though, was that loyalties ran deep.

  “I do not want to go back,” she breathed, and her heart beat painfully in her breast.

  Curlew made no response, but his arm curled about her waist and drew her hard to his side.

  “I do not say you know where she is,” the captain responded to whatever Falcon had said, “but my lord the Sheriff wishes to assure her return … taken for security until she is found.”

  “No!” The cry came not from Falcon but Lark. A number of villagers started forward, and the sudden threat of violence reverberated through the air.

  Anwyn, still blinking through the raindrops, saw Heron move forward to face the captain. “… makes you think she would … forest? … anywhere.”

  “… give you three days,” the captain hollered in reply and mayhem promptly erupted as the villagers charged the mounted men.

  Suddenly a bow appeared in Lark Scarlet’s hands. As Curlew abandoned Anwyn to rush forward, she saw a man tumble from his horse, an arrow through his throat. A villager fell to a blow from a soldier’s sword, even as Anwyn leaped in an effort to catch Curlew.

  She failed, for he eluded her and loped away through the trees. With a sob, she followed.

  Everything seemed to happen at once: the mounted men attacked the villagers even as arrows flew in a sudden, deadly storm. Screams tore the air. Anwyn, though, thought only of holding Curlew Champion back from danger.

  And then, to her horror, she saw Heron’s bright head go down. He crumpled, and a host of cries arose all around him.

  “Hold!” The demand came from one among the troop of soldiers—the captain, Rassent, Curlew had called him. It froze Curlew even where he stood, for the man held Falcon Scarlet fast, with his sword at Falcon’s throat.

  “Three days,” the captain called into the sudden silence, “and we take this, your headman, for security. Should the girl be returned before then, well and good. Should she not be returned, your headman will stand trial along with the others taken, for violation of the King’s law.”

  “You cannot!” one of the villagers cried. “No venison was found here. You cannot prove—”

  A blow from one of the soldiers silenced him and brought blood to his lips.

  “The Sheriff has spoken. Take him,” Rassent ordered two of his men, and lowered his sword from Falcon’s throat.

  At once, Falcon began to fight—not, as Anwyn saw, to free himself but to reach Heron who lay on the ground, unmoving. Curlew came to life suddenly and ran forward to throw himself into the fray. But before Anwyn could follow, it was over, for one of the soldiers stood with Lark Scarlet in his grip and a long knife hard against her breast.

  Falcon turned his eyes on her and all the fight went out of him. Anwyn sensed that, somehow unheard, they exchanged words before Falcon was dragged onto one of the soldiers’ mounts, and with a terrible din the company rode away, leaving devastation behind.

  ****

  “This is your fault.” Lark Scarlet’s golden eyes, sharp as knives, stabbed at Anwyn, and raw hatred rolled from her. The woman knelt, stricken, on the floor of the hut to which Heron had been carried, her son’s head on her knees. Diera crouched beside them, her hands already red with Heron’s blood.

  Anwyn—always ready with her tongue and seldom at a loss for words—could not speak. Emotion overwhelmed her, both Lark’s grief and that of the others present. She could almost feel the pain that possessed Curlew’s heart. He stood like a child, stricken.

  Lark shot a look at him. “She will need to be sent back at once. You see that.” Not a question but the pronouncement of law. “I would be rid of her as I would a contagion.”

  Curlew glanced at Anwyn and then, ignoring both her and his aunt’s hard words, went to his knees at Heron’s side.

  “Heron?”

  No response; Heron lay l
ike a carving of a god, or an angel, his beautiful face far too still. The blow from the soldier’s blade had taken him below the throat and sliced through both clothing and the flesh beneath. The blood welled as from an underground river and none of Diera’s efforts so far had made it cease.

  Folk crowded the doorway of the hut, peering in. Diera’s hands shook, and she lifted an ashen face to Lark. “I have not the skill for this. We could send for Peg from Ravenshead, but I do not know that there is time.”

  “We need Linnet, with her healing touch,” Lark grieved, “but I have lost her. I will be cursed if I will lose Fal and Heron as well. Son, arise!”

  Heron refused to stir, and a lump rose to Anwyn’s throat. She could not say she liked Lark Scarlet, and she knew how the woman despised her. But her grief was now tangible, alive in the room. And, oh, she did like Heron. It struck her hard to see all his brightness lying still.

  And what of Curlew? How must he feel now? His mother ill, his uncle seized, and now his companion in this mysterious, inexplicable guardianship struck down also.

  How she wished she could help! She would give anything to be able to mend things for him.

  Almost as if he could hear those thoughts, he glanced at her over his shoulder. Then, quite shockingly, he laid both his hands, palms down, in the blood that covered Heron’s chest. He bowed his head in an attitude of prayer and began to speak words, too low for Anwyn to catch.

  And something came in response to those words. The very air of the hut stirred, the folk at the door murmured, shadows rearranged themselves, and a dim glow appeared around Curlew’s hands.

  Dark green it was, the hue of fir needles, deep and fathomless. Anwyn blinked as she realized what this must be—power, magic, pure and strong. Awe enfolded her, and she took a half step back even as all her senses responded and came alive.

  Curlew—for the first time she saw him as more than just a man. Was this what the guardianship entailed?

  Could the power he unleashed call to Heron?

  It certainly called to something within her own heart. Every fiber of her being and every speck of her spirit responded and arose, quivering. It was Diera, though, who looked up from Heron’s face and noticed her first.